treaclechops’s TMA Blog

The Healing and Insight of Oxfordshire Hill Forts

Soul Soothing

After a particularly stressful time, due to the sudden death of my sister's boyfriend through heart failure at the age of 25, compounded by problems in my own personal life, the lovely Karen offered to take me out somewhere to do something nice. I was so stressed that I couldn't think of anything nice to do, so listened to my heart instead: "White Horse Hill: Uffington Castle," it said repeatedly.

So that's where we went, on a warm, sunny, Sunday afternoon. We sat on the northern ramparts, overlooking the whole of Oxfordshire and the Vale of White Horse. It felt like coming home to sit on the grassy earthwork and just be. Fortunately, it wasn't wildly busy, despite the bank holiday weekend. There wasn't much haze, either, so we could see for miles, from Swindon in the west, to somewhere beyond Didcot in the east.

Sitting at the roof of Oxfordshire, just looking at the land below, the curvature of the earth and the pattern of the fields became very centering. Time slowed instantly. The warm wind rustled gently through the long grasses. Its whispering was a panacea to my twisted, mangled, exhausted emotions. Goddess knew how my sister felt; I wished I could pass on some of this spiritual salve.

Eventually, we turned to talk of life, death and the universe. The sun beat down on us; skylarks squeaked and fluttered across the grassland. Clouds moved slowly through the sky. The simplicity of all this was wonderful. We spent four fabulous hours up there, before decamping to Karen's for dinner. I felt my screwed up emotions had been neatly ironed; still flat, but smoother. I will always appreciate the power of hillforts far more since this experience.

A Long-Awaited Discovery

A week later, and Cloudhigh and I went out to visit Blewburton Hill. Neither of us had been here before, but I had seen it from the road several times; the most memorable being with Jane on the way to her riding lesson at the stables in the shadow of the fort. It was winter then, and the beautifully sculpted earthworks were dusted with pure white snow. A few hardy walkers were to be seen atop the structure, and it was all desperately romantic.

This time, however, we were enjoying a fairly cool summer's day, where the clouds were beginning to pack up slightly. We walked up the footpath/bridleway, through the farmyard, pausing briefly to watch a small rodent watch us from a convenient hole in the ground. As we approached the stunning hill fort, we were discussing the TMA treeware version ('treeware' - what a quaint phrase that is), and the ideas surrounding Goddess worship; the matrilineal society; women's collusion in their subjugation by the patriarchy – inasmuch they do the work of repressing women themselves, by implementing set ways of social behaviour, thereby saving men the effort – and societal attitudes towards people who carve their own furrow through life. We have some good chats, Cloudhigh and I.

We climbed the stile into a field, and began our ascent of the stunning ramparts, about five ridges deep. We didn't think to look for a path, so deep were we in conversation, so it was a rather breathy scramble up and down the ditches. Breathy just because theories on society's apparent inability to distinguish people separately to gender (or something of that ilk), were being expounded. Having engaged in proper medieval battle re-enactment in the past, I can't imagine what a labour it would be to have to launch an offensive on a structure like this, were it for military purposes. A bit more breathy, I expect.

A View Of History

Clambering up on to the flat, plateau–like top of the fort, we were treated to the most amazing view across Oxfordshire, and what was clearly a very important Iron Age kingdom. To the south-west lay Churn Knob, easily picked out from the copses on the horizon by the bloody great cross erected next to the mound. (Blasted St. Birinus; but it does make a handy reference point – OK, I deserve a smack with a riding crop). Beyond Churn Knob lay the Blewbury Downs Tumuli, almost equidistant between Blewburton Hill and Perborough Castle. The same tribe, maybe, or a shared burial ground?

Looking round to the west, the land spread before us magnificently, leading out to the Vale of White Horse; then we were subjected to the unfortunate and grotesque Didcot Power Station, squatting like a homunculus on this realm; and in the north, Oxford. Further round, clearly and unmistakably, the twin copses of Wittenham Clumps and the Sinodun Hills rose up proudly from the flat fields. A kilometer from them stood the lonely tree on Brightwell Barrow. Looking north-east, we could see what I thought was Stokenchurch Tower, poking up from the edge of the Chilterns. Cloudhigh wondered if he could see Ivinghoe Beacon on the horizon.

And somehow, it suddenly all added up for me, this landscape. The different places flowed together across the land in one continuous line; a line the ancients knew; a line that continues throughout time, just as powerfully on a Sunday afternoon in the second millennium CE as in the first millennium BCE. Blimey, that's 3,000 years!!!

Our conversation had now turned to matters of business, business that was giving me huge fears. But as we sat above a rabbit warren on the top rampart, and gazed at the view whilst talking at length, it all clarified in my mind. I was scared of a small pile of paperwork; I saw in my mind's eye a warrior king standing where I was, looking at his kingdom, and knowing he had to rule it absolutely. My job didn't seem so overwhelming.

Harmony

All afternoon, as we discussed one thing and another, this landscape; the spirit of the landscape; and my soul and mind merged and flowed together . . . an iron age kingdom became a motif for my own inner struggles and confusion, something that needed to be dealt with and administered. It also showed me that by the same coin, there are no certainties in life; can you control and rule a land(scape) absolutely? Or do you accept that it will remain indefinitely, that you just walk the surface briefly, and as such, realise that belief in the unknown will make your journey easier, and strangely, more successful?

I might not be expressing the feeling of clarity I experienced very well in words, but I thought I'd give it a crack. One thing is absolutely certain; Blewburton Hill is a corking place, and great for silent contemplation, or for yelling at friends if the need arises!

Eventually, after slowly walking the ramparts it was time for us to leave, and we made our way back down the bridleway, looking at a chap sitting on the tailfin of the glider he'd had to land in the nearby field earlier in the afternoon. Cloudhigh also told me about a fascinating place called 'Shartford', which can be found in deepest Devon, or possibly the fantastic realms of a few good friends' minds. :o) (But it explains those hideous plates with grinning puppies painted on them, beloved of the Sunday supplements . . . I'm digressing again. Whoopsie).

With a last glance backwards on this superb fortification, I commented on the fact that I own a pair of cufflinks that look remarkably like Blewburton Hill.. How splendid is it to be arrayed in a dinner jacket, wearing Iron Age hill fort cufflinks, and smoking Ziganov Black Russians (only on special occasions, like Yule)? Answer: very splendid!

Sitting at the roof of Oxfordshire, just looking at the land below, the curvature of the earth, and the pattern of the fields became very centering. Time slowed instantly. The warm wind rustled gently through the long grasses. Its whispering was a panacea to my twisted, mangled, exhausted emotions [after the sudden death of my sister's boyfriend]. Goddess knew how my sister felt; I wished I could pass on some of this spiritual salve.

Clambering up on to the flat, plateau–like top of the fort, we were treated to the most amazing view across Oxfordshire, and what was clearly a very important Iron Age kingdom. To the south-west lay Churn Knob, easily picked out from the copses on the horizon by the bloody great cross erected next to the mound. (Blasted St. Birinus; but it does make a handy reference point – OK, I deserve a smack with a riding crop). Beyond Churn Knob lay the Blewbury Downs Tumuli, almost equidistant between Blewburton Hill and Perborough Castle. The same tribe, maybe, or a shared burial ground?

Looking round to the west, the land spread before us magnificently, leading out to the Vale of White Horse; then we were subjected to the unfortunate and grotesque Didcot Power Station, squatting like a homunculus on this realm; and in the north, Oxford. Further round, clearly and unmistakably, the twin copses of Wittenham Clumps and the Sinodun Hills rose up proudly from the flat fields. A kilometer from them stood the lonely tree on Brightwell Barrow. Looking north-east, we could see what I thought was Stokenchurch Tower, poking up from the edge of the Chilterns. Cloudhigh wondered if he could see Ivinghoe Beacon on the horizon.

And somehow, it suddenly all added up for me, this landscape. The different places flowed together across the land in one continuous line; a line the ancients knew; a line that continues throughout time, just as powerfully on a Sunday afternoon in the second millennium CE as in the first millennium BCE. Blimey, that’s 3,000 years!!!